Second First Impressions(6)
Melanie flips open the file, decides it’s boring, and says, “Think about the Sasaki Method. Think about giving a smile to the next cute guy you see.”
I do think about these things for a long time as I walk up the hill, moving tortoises off the path with my hand in a latex glove. I give each one a flirty fake smile. I know that when I circuit back around, they’ll be on the path again.
No one can say I don’t try my best.
CHAPTER THREE
Time to saddle up and hit the trails on this gleaming borrowed steed. For the journey, I’ll be needing:
? My cool cardigan (it has foxes and mushrooms)
? A freshly retightened bun with no escaping wisps of hair
? Brushed teeth and some pink lip gloss
? Some courage, which I know is weird
Hold on to your hat, partner, we’re about to ride out into the valley and … who am I kidding? I’ll sit here and simmer in my own nerves. I once googled how much the Parlonis’ car cost, and my brain instantly forgot the amount like I’d experienced a trauma. I hate leaving here. What if something happens? Someone falls, a hydrant explodes? A tortoise sprains its ankle? I make myself start the (very valuable) engine, because the sooner I leave, the quicker I can get back for tonight’s episode of my favorite show.
I haven’t told a real-life soul this, but I’m one of the founding creators of the longest-running Heaven Sent online forum, Heaven Sent You Here. Heaven Sent is about Pastor Pierce Percival; his wife, Taffy; their studious teen daughter, Francine; plus twin eight-year-old girls (Jacinta and Bethany), who are always up to mischief.
The forum hosts an annual global rewatch of the entire show. Tonight we’re up to Season Two, episode eight. That’s the one where the homesick twins think they’ve seen the face of Jesus singed onto a marshmallow at Bible camp. When I get back from my errands for the Parlonis, I need to rewatch this episode to refresh myself on it and start a discussion thread.
With this goal in mind, I begin the trip. Holy moly. I’m in the outside world. I’m filling the car with liquid gold at the less-busy gas station when I realize I am staring at the back of a young man. He has very long black hair that puts Melanie’s hair extensions to shame. Resplendent, gleaming hair is wasted on men. I bet he doesn’t even condition or get the ends trimmed. He sits there sideways on his motorbike, ankles crossed, that unearned glory lifting on a breeze in an inky swirl.
He’s oblivious to my presence. Fine by me.
This particular specimen is in his twenties. His skin sits tight on his body, inked all over with tattoos. I see a scorpion, a knife and fork, a diamond ring. It’s like his body is the page he’s been doodling on while on hold to the electricity company. An upward trail of butterflies, a switchblade, a donut. The artistry is lovely. This is a guy who took a lot of care getting trivial, unrelated things printed all over himself.
Nothing’s been colored in, and I want to unzip my pencil case and get to work. I’d start on that big unfurled rose on the back of his arm. Actually, I think I’d use a pink lipstick. The slanted tip would be just the right size for the petals, each the size of a woman’s kiss.
He turns his head, feeling my eyes like an animal would, but he doesn’t look back at me. I stare at the concrete until he resettles. I put my hand on my neck; I can feel my heartbeat. This is an interesting development: My body knows it’s twenty-five.
Melanie told me to take a chance and smile at a guy. I look down at myself. Mom told me once that I have nice calves and my reflection in the car’s window is perfectly fine, maybe even pretty when I soften my face.
Imagine being a guy. How would it feel to sit on a neat butt that doesn’t spread out like a hen when you sit? If I was turned into a man for a day, I’d spend the first hour carrying around hay bales, making myself sweat. Then I’d muster the courage to unzip my pants to make a decision on whether seeing a penis is a worthwhile priority moving forward. As the minutes tick on, the Rolls-Royce guzzles and he continues to sit motionless. I can’t see a second helmet. He does have a very full backpack. I worry for that zipper.
I lock the car. Then I check each individual door. I say under my breath: “I locked the car doors.” I mostly believe myself as I walk inside to pay.
As I’m deliberating over what soft-looking chocolate bars I’ll get for Renata, my ears tune in to the gas station clerk’s hushed telephone conversation. “He’s going to steal it.”
I rush to the window to check the car, but Tattoo Guy’s sitting where I left him. I lay my purchases on the counter.
The clerk says into the phone, “It’s been more than ten minutes. He’s filled his bike, can’t pay for it, and he’s deciding what to do.” He begins scanning my items and mouths my total at me. “Yeah. As soon as he touches the ignition, I’m calling the cops.”
I look through the dusty windows. It’s evident from the set of this guy’s shoulders and the stark deliberation on his face that he is sitting inside a terrible moment. I was oblivious as I admired his butt. Then I suspected him of theft. Is it true that he has no money? I was in a similar situation once. I was only a few weeks out of home and my card kept getting declined. My neck was hot from bottling up the tears. A motherly type paid for me and disappeared into the night. All she’d said was, Pay it forward.